All that patience had paid off in a new trend. Call it restlessness, call it closet therapy—whatevs, the biker fashion had done its job. It was time to move on to something more swagger-y. Something dramatic. Something that screamed: I'm not here to blend into the upholstery. I'm here to own.
And then: the pirate attire. Fishman Island tailors didn't blink at my physique—pros, master seamstresses. The shirt: blinding white, cut like it was made just for me, like some fantasy. Hugs the ribcage, cinches at the hips like it's infatuated. Sticks to me, follows my movements. Fabric nearly says, We got the job.
These pants were a curveball. Black, midnight, with that stretchy mojo that had me thinking I could throw hands or shift stance without popping a stitch. Cuffed just right at the ankle, matching the boots—streamlined, black, no lace, no junk. Slide on, and the material envelops my feet like they're signing a pact of peace. Each step reminds me I'm walking through something tailored to my measure. Something lethal.
So I have options now. That whole biker gear? That's my disguise uniform. Street level. Keep-your-head-down-until-you-don't kinda thing. Comes in handy when subtlety's the issue—but, naturally, subtlety was never my talent. That pirate getup, though? That's when I'm done pretending.
But that's what you do when you wait—it isn't just that—you're pressure-cooking. Tension leading up to the blowup. Yeah, I'd loiter around the Mermaid Café, swishing that seawater tea around in my mouth like I cared, chewing on just-grilled fins, all cool about snapping chairs when I pulled myself out of them. But I had fire burning inside me. Plans stacked like cards. Thoughts running like they had fists. I'd make strategies, play chess with future enemies in my head, daydream about leveling buildings—myths made of dust, of blood.
Seven days felt like a fuck of a long time. Every tick of the clock just piled more weight on the storm brewing in my gut.
Shyarly saw through me straight off. Always had. She smiled that smile—gentle, sorrowful, mind-reading as usual. "You're ready to raise anchor," she said, her eyes glinting like they were already watching the destruction I'd leave behind.
"You don't say," I panted, breathing slow, like that would soothe the beast under my flesh. "I must admit, I appreciate your work here. But don't forget—my journey doesn't set sail without you."
She—she understood what I actually meant. That smile turned bittersweet. She was torn—that was her default face now. She had a life. The Mermaid Café wasn't a corporation; it was her sanctuary, her haven of calm in a world that didn't give a shit if people lived happily ever after. She provided that here. Made it safe. Hell, she even got pirates to play by the rules under her roof.
There's just one little catch—she's too damned significant to leave behind. Too smart. Too connected. Too powerful in every way that counts. Leaving her behind would be like mooring a man-of-war in a teacup.
Shyarly looked up at tea time, and for half a heartbeat, I swear the leaves shrank back like they saw a ghost. Or maybe they just caught a whiff of the emotion grenade that had just walked into the room. She recognized the kind. I told about Perona twice—always casually, always in that guarded tone men use when talking about some hurricane they slept with. The girl who made suicidal fantasy fashionable. The ghost-wielding, goth-colored outcast who dove headfirst into depression and landed gracefully.
No greeting necessary. Shyarly didn't waste time with those—didn't blink, didn't wince. Just slid into the chair beside me like it was instinct. The music in the café staggered, like even the record player knew it wasn't the center of attention anymore. And the onlookers? Swivel-necked rubbernecks acting like they hadn't just seen death saunter in, wrapped in emo porn on steroids.
Shyarly gave a small contracted smile—one of those "I've seen worse, but I'm still unimpressed" smiles. Serene, composed, all diplomat. But there was tension coiled around her shoulders like a silk garrote.
"Perona, was it?" She said, voice as smooth as drawing a scabbard. Cold enough to slice.
Perona, always the provocateur, didn't glance away. "Cassian's told me a lot about you," she said, voice lined with venom. She knew exactly which strings to pull, and how hard.
Shyarly didn't blink. "I've heard rumors," she said, placing her cup down like prepping for surgery. "One of your people has some interesting tales."
Perona's eyes narrowed, razor-sharp. That pre-cat-claw moment. "Fortune-telling, yeah?" she taunted, fingers dancing across the words like knives. "Quaint. A hobby for someone who looks so... grounded."
The air thickened—honey on gunpowder. I knew that tone. I'd heard it in bars, boardrooms, and battlefields. Not anger—warfare. Two alphas circling, not over territory, but over me. And that's what pissed me off.
I slapped my hand down on the table hard enough to rattle dishes. "Okay, easy," I said, smiling like I wasn't about to knock their heads together like coconuts. "Let's pretend we're on the same team. Crew, right? Or we will be. Once we stop measuring dicks."
Perona's lip curled. Not a smile. More like: I can kill you, and I'll still sleep like a baby.
Shyarly stared her down, but there was trouble brewing behind those eyes. The kind that redrafts shorelines.
I pressed on, voice cutting through the posture-play.
"We need each other. Not want. Not maybe. Need. This ain't some myths-and-beauties kind of trip. It's the New World. The part of the map where gods get chewed up and legends come back home in pieces—if they come back at all."
They heard me. No nods. No replies. But they heard.
"I reckon we all got our brands of crazy," I added, cracking that signature smile I usually wore right before doing something ill-advised. "But this crew? It doesn't run on phantoms or muscle. We need foresight. Precision. Harmony. And if we can't manage that over overpriced booze and seafood, then we're six ways from Sunday screwed the second we hit the Grand Line."
Perona tapped a rhythm on her glass, face easing into something wicked.
"Chaos," she said, rolling the word on her tongue like a piece of candy. "I like it."
Shyarly tilted her head. "I like harmony," she murmured. "But I do enjoy entropy… in moderation."
Perona grinned. "Was that a threat?"
Shyarly raised a brow. "Was that a challenge?"
I whistled and leaned back, arms spread wide, letting the weight of it all settle.
"All right, ladies," I said, raising my glass—a mix of grog and sheer indulgence. "To the future."
We toasted. Hollow clinks. Empty grins. The kind diplomats wear when plotting coups. But that didn't matter. This wasn't about friendship. This was about building an empire. And you don't build an empire on feelings. You build it on tension, fire-forged loyalty, and the occasional knife behind a back.
As I drank, one image kept bleeding through my thoughts—Neptune's Daughter. Shirahoshi. That voice. That voice of command. If I could just get her on our side—by persuasion or by abduction—the world would split at the seams. But logistics were a bitch. She was larger than my ship, more emotionally unstable than a bomb with daddy issues, and shielded by enough political red tape I'd need a legal team just to think about kidnapping her.
And then there was Shyarly. Her bond with Shirahoshi went deep—sacred, even. Blurring that line would mean burning bridges I hadn't even crossed yet.
My Den Den Mushi leapt to life like a banshee-howling orgasm, tearing through the smooth jazz and clinking china of the café like a chainsaw through wedding cake. I plucked the little son of a b**ch off my belt, fingers massaging the burning shell—burning like it knew this wasn't just some bored revolutionary's rumor relay holler.
Akainu's voice crackled through the receiver—loud and cold, like someone planted a glacier in a megaphone and told it to bark orders. For a quick second, it rattled something loose inside me. Not fear, exactly—more like that gut-deep unease you get when you realize the gun pointed at you doesn't have a safety.
"Cassian, you are not difficult to find. Twenty-five feet tall and as black as the depths of hell. How's the fish market business?"
Cute. I could almost smell the hot brimstone and cigar smoke wafting from whatever hole he called an office.
I clenched the Den Den Mushi tighter, thumb tracing its ridges like a twitch I hadn't shaken. The café faded behind me; the sound folded in on itself until it was just ambient noise again. I grinned—a crooked thing no one would ever see. "Akainu. I'd call it a surprise, but you calling me up is like watching a bull attempt ballet—obnoxious, clumsy, and bound to ruin someone's day."
Silence. Long enough that I wondered if I'd overplayed my hand—then he laughed. Except it wasn't a laugh. It was harsh, guttural—something that had no business being called a laugh.
"Straight to the point, then. Lucci's been in my ear. Says you've got the stones to go after the Celestial Dragons. Can't tell if you're crazy, suicidal, or just fed up with their aftershave."
I didn't blink. He knew. This wasn't gossip or pillow talk behind steel doors—he knew. And he wasn't asking for my head? My heart didn't skip; it tap-danced behind my ribs like it was auditioning.
"Okay, I don't make long proposals," I said, my voice low, smooth. "Give me a time, a place, and how many dead bodies I'm expected to leave behind. I'll handle the rest."
Something rustled down the line. A murmur. Maybe approval. Maybe something darker. With Akainu, you never know. He doesn't play the game—he is the f**king table.
"Three days. Mariejois. The heights we always glimpse. If you want to make a difference, that's the time. And I want fireworks."
Then—click. No goodbye. No threat. Just silence. Like he'd pulled the pin on a grenade, dropped it at my feet, and strolled off whistling.
I set the Mushi down, heart pounding like war drums in my veins. Three days. To tear down the most elusive scum alive. I took a long, deep breath, metal and adrenaline clinging to the back of my throat. Challenge? Sure. But I don't do half-jobs. I either set the world on fire… or I make them watch as I rebuild it.
Across the table, silence cracked as Perona finally broke it, legs swung up, lollipop halfway to her lips. "Well, that was… intimate," she said, sugary venom. "You gonna tell me what Mr. Volcano wants from you?"
Sarcasm never fazed Shyarly. Her eyes were knives—worn, sharp, tear-salted. "What do you want from Akainu?" she asked, voice tight and husky, like she was holding back a storm.
I let that question hang—suspended like a noose—and then smiled. Slow. Predatory.
"Let's just say we share common interests. And the Celestial Dragons? Bad luck for them—they're standing on the wrong side of it."
I leaned forward, elbows on the table like I'd just been dealt pocket aces in a game no one else realized they were losing. My voice dipped low, sharp as a blade slipped beneath the skin.
"You heard him, Shyarly. Three days. That's your deadline to get your affairs in order."
Her eyes widened—not oh-wow wide. Oh f**k wide. Her grip on the teacup tightened, porcelain whispering of cracks.
"Three days?" she echoed, the words a scrambled breath. "That's too soon."
I didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Didn't care.
"Life's a damnable tease," I said, giving my cup a hard shake. "Doesn't warn you or kiss you first before it fks you around. The longer we sit, the closer the knife gets. You've got seventy-two hours. Say your goodbyes. Sort your demons. Then get your ass on the motherfking ship."
**
I had stumbled back onto the deck, intoxicated. Not on grog—though I admit, I'd had my tankard to brace for a good collapse—but on bravery. Double-distilled, double-strong what-the-fuck-are-we-doing kind of bravery.
Akainu—Akainu—the monstrosity of war on feet posing as a cloak of justice, had approved the action. No strings. No trickery. Just the silent permission of a man who could snap an island in half on a Tuesday as mundane as any other. It was death incarnate giving a little wink, like, yeah, go for it.
The cold night breeze caressed my cheek as I looked down over Fishman Island from the balcony. I wiped the booze—and whatever pride was leaking from the corner of my mouth—off my mustache with the back of my hand. The message from the call kept spinning through my head like a broken reel: Akainu's voice, ice-cold; the heft of the Den Den Mushi in my palm; the weight of what we'd just committed to.
That's when I saw it.
Naturally, he was involved too.
I mean, of course he was. I'd seen One Piece. I'd scouted that world long before setting foot on it. No one liked the Celestial Dragons. Not the pirates, not the people, not even the jackbooted fascists in uniform. They were a blight on a world everyone insisted couldn't be killed. And Akainu? For all his fire and fury, he was still a man goaded by justice—his brand of it, sure, but justice nonetheless.
He wasn't surrendering to me because he liked me. He had the gun aimed and needed someone else to pull the trigger. Clean hands in Marine blues.
But the real mindfuck? I wasn't just in the story anymore.
I was the story.
These people I used to read about—they weren't fan fantasies or plot devices anymore. They bled. Breathed. Schemed. And me? I'd become one of them. Flesh and blood. Anger and consequence.
The only difference? I still knew how it all ended. Every flaw, every crack, every mortal stain.
And if I played this right?
I wouldn't just survive the next arc.
I'd rewrite the ending.
Camie stepped out of the shadows like a ghost of good intentions—fishtail, wide eyes, and that presence that said: You just killed someone. You're legally bound to file a report. Or at least dig the grave, right?
Her smile—that one that could maybe convince the snowman on Hades' front porch to buy ice—was gone. In its place was concern: sincere, steady, pouring off her like heat from a broken engine.
"Cassian," she said gently—too gently, like her voice might crack if it got any closer to the truth. "I want to talk to you. It's about Shyarly."
The words scorched through me like a branding iron—sharp, hot, permanent. I turned to her, reading her face like a map of somewhere I'd never dared travel. Camie—Luffy's childhood friend, the mermaid with DNA that spelled hope. I'd glimpsed her in passing, always in the background, like a cocktail waitress with a single book-light. Smile ready. Waters calm.
But now? She was center stage, serious as a tax audit at a pirate wedding. And no, not literally.
"What about her?" I asked, voice level but not cold. Warm enough to say I'm listening, hard enough to say this better count.
Camie hesitated—for one beat. Then she surged forward, hands balled like they were gripping each other to keep from flying apart.
"Take care of Shyarly," she said. Blunt. The words slipped out on shaky breaths, like they were crossing a tightrope in a lightning storm. "Please. Just… make sure she's okay."
Her eyes locked on mine—wide, swimming, full of that frightened hope that makes you want to punch a wall. She had that puppy-yelling-at-a-hurricane thing going on. Way out of her depth, but not even close to giving up.
I didn't answer right away. I just looked at her—really looked. Not as a symbol. Not as Luffy's sidekick or the cute mascot of the coffee shop. But as someone real. Someone with fear. Someone who, in some gut-deep way, understood just how far over the edge we were dangling.
I nodded. Just once. No drama. No pose. Just the truth.
"I will," I said. And I meant it.